


How to Change a Life in Two Weeks or Less

by Alyssa_bird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Seeking a Friend for The End of the World AU, Sherlock AU, Sherlock/ Seeking a Friend For the End of the World AU, sherlock crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyssa_bird/pseuds/Alyssa_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet one another two weeks before the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Change My Course

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my very first fic so any sort of criticism is welcome! I got this idea from the movie, "Seeking a Friend for the End of the World". It's a lovely movie and I strongly recommend it!
> 
> The distances aren't very realistic but eh, let's just let it slide for the stories sake, yeah?

_Okay, what we're getting now is, yes, there was a fire that erupted inside the external tank of the ship approximately 90 seconds after it entered the asteroid field. They're not sure what caused the fire that led to the massive explosion, killing twelve crew members and scientists aboard the space shuttle, Deliverance, taking with them our last and only hope. Once again if you are just tuning in: The space shuttle, Deliverance, has been destroyed. The final mission to save mankind has failed. The 70- mile wide asteroid most commonly known as, Matilda, is set to collide with earth in three weeks time. We will be bringing you all the latest news and the countdown to the end of days along with all of your classic rock favorites._

John gripped the steering wheel of his car tightly as he stared out onto the darkened street. He felt as if the all the air had been sucked out of him. _Three weeks. Three bloody weeks_. He should call Harry, no, if she was listening in to the radio she'd probably be in the midst of getting pissed off her arse. Better call her tomorrow morning. No, she'd probably be sleeping off a hangover. Tomorrow afternoon for sure. Wait, no he'd be at work. Did he even have to go to work tomorrow? Did it matter? Christ, did anything matter anymore? He sighed and and pushed lightly on the gas pedal and made the drive home.

21 DAYS.

* * *

 

The next seven days went by in a blur. John felt as if his body was on auto- pilot, an emotionless drone making his way through the motions. He exited St. Barts Hospital tugging along his work bag. There hadn't been many patients today, a few broken bones and sprains from people caught up in the riots that had swiftly become a daily occurrence in the city. Since the announcement of the end of the world all it took nowadays to start a riot was for someone to tip over a rubbish bin. The riots mostly occurred at night and John decided that if people still needed medical assistance, he still needed to be a doctor. What else could he do? He somehow reached his flat without even remembering the drive home. John pushed open his front gate and slowly trudged up steps into his modest flat. The door creaked as John swung the door open. He stared into the dark, empty flat and sighed. He stepped into the flat and shrugged off his coat and pulled off his gloves. He walked over to the coffee table that sat in the center of the main room and picked up a framed photo. Sarah had left when news of the failed mission hit the news channels. Actually, _left_ , was a bit of an understatement. She _ran_.

John had arrived home from work the night he heard the news of the meteor to find Sarah standing in the middle of the main room with a small suitcase by her feet and a coat on. The telly was on as the main newscaster grimly delivered the news of the impending meteor that will surely crash into the Earth. John took in a sharp breath. To be honest, he wasn't totally surprised. She had stood there unmoving and stared straight at John. Just as John was about to open his mouth to say something she simply picked up her suitcase, walked past John and toward the front door, and took off in a dead sprint. John closed his mouth and stared down at the floor. He didn't have anything to say to her anyways. What could he have said? He turned around to peer out of the open door. He looked out onto the dark street and through the darkness he could make out the faintest shape of a person running as fast as they could. John slowly shut the door, she didn't even have anything to say to him? She couldn't even say goodbye?

John noticed his reflection in the frame and saw his face tinged with sadness. He put the picture face down and threw himself onto the couch face first. What now? He breathed in deeply into the throw pillow. John started to contemplate how best to off himself without making too much of a mess when he suddenly heard a huge crash and a deep booming voice shout, "STUPID! HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUPID?" He heard another crash and he suspected someone was knocking over bins. Probably some druggie looking to cause a riot. Luckily his neighborhood had been left relatively unscathed thus far. There was a sound of glass shattering against concrete and more shouts of anger. John stood up and crept over to his kitchen and stood on tiptoe to peer out through the window that was placed above the sink. Over the foliage he could make out a tall, slender figure kicking dents into tipped over bins. _His bins!_

The enraged man was repeatedly kicking the bins, his face was scrunched up into a look of pure rage, his teeth bared and nostrils flared. John grit his teeth and before he thought better of it, marched to the front door and stomped down the steps and forcefully pushed open his gate and onto the street towards the tall man.

"Excuse me!" John shouted, the man immediately stopped his kicking and turned slightly to see who was addressing him. "What exactly do you think you're doing?!"

"I'm letting out my anger isn't that what you're supposed to do when your angry?" The man replied between swift kicks.

"Not on other people's property, you cock!" John yelled, throwing his hands in the air.

"Oh, please! Why don't you leave me alone! Does it really matter if your bloody rubbish is everywhere?" The tall man stopped kicking and turned to face John full on. The light of the streetlamps above allowed John a better look at the man. He had dark curly hair and pale blue eyes. He had a strange sort of face but altogether he was quite good-looking. He was wearing a long, dark and an obviously expensive coat with the collar turned up. He had a blue scarf wrapped around his neck and wore black leather gloves on his long hands. He didn't look like a rioter or someone who'd try to bash his head in and loot his flat. Probably just some poor bloke dealing with the news just like everybody else.

"That's not the point! There are better ways to deal with this with the news. Go loot a Tesco! Go join an orgy or something! Why are you taking you anger out on my bins?" The man gave John and exasperated look.

He let out a deep breath, "I'm taking my anger out on your bins because I have case to solve and I've got nothing to go on and I've only got two. Fucking. Weeks. To solve it!" He was shouting at the top of his lungs now. John could see some of his neighbors peeking from behind curtains and darkened windows. "But no, that's not what bothering me, I could solve this case in two hours if I wanted too! You know what's bothering me? It doesn't even matter! It doesn't matter if I find out who the killer is. It doesn't matter if I find out his motive. It doesn't matter if I find out how he did it! It doesn't matter!"

"Case? What, are you some sort of detective?"

"Consulting Detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job," The man replied now more composed, "Sherlock Holmes." The man held out his hand.

"John Watson," He took the man's hand and shook it. "Now are you gonna apologize and clean up this mess?" He gestured towards the garbage littered across the lane.

"Nope."

John sighed and looked from the mess on the floor, to the pale eyes that were locked on him, to his front door that was still ajar. "Would you like to come in?"

Sherlock stared at him. Sizing John up almost. "I promise not to steal anything if you promise not to murder me. As if you could, anyways."

"Deal," John smiled and turned to walk back into the flat. "Come on, I'll make you a cuppa and we'll discuss my bins."

Sherlock walked slowly behind John. He had short, sandy blonde hair and a slight upturned nose. He was considerably shorter than Sherlock was but not as skinny. It's quite obvious the man is a few years older than he was. Early forties perhaps. Half a second ago this man was ready to fight and now he's inviting him in? Well, I guess this isn't much of a surprise. It was the end of the world after all. When people are aware of their imminent death they tend to get very sentimental. Besides, he doesn't look like a murderer anyways.

They made their way into the flat and John walked straight to the kitchen and began preparing the tea. Sherlock stood uncertainly in the middle of the main room, taking in every detail and finding out more and more about John.

"Have a seat," John said from the kitchen. Sherlock walked over to the blue, squashy couch and settled himself on one of the cushions. "So you say you're a consulting detective? What's that mean?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me." Sherlock said with an air of arrogance and importance.

"They think you're that good?"

"I am that good."

"Is that so?"

"Of course, I know you're a retired army doctor, who now works in a hospital here in London. I also know that you're girlfriend just walked out on you. Ouch, a bit harsh given the fact we all only have fourteen days to live and counting, don't you think? I'm also going to deduce that you may have some obsession with danger, one might even say you're attracted to it."

John froze and turned to look at Sherlock who was perched on the couch, "How did you..?"

"You haircut and the way you hold yourself screams military. The fact that you work in medicine now suggests you were an army doctor then. I know you're a doctor because, I mean, well, look at your outfit of course you're doctor. Comfortable shoes with padded soles and a shirt and trousers that are decent and easy to maneuver in but mostly because I saw an employee parking pass from St. Barts Hospital hanging from the rear view mirror on what I am assuming is your car. I know you're girlfriend just left you because of the picture frame here that is faced down. If she had been a partner who had passed away or possibly offed herself in light of the recent news of the apocalypse it'd still be faced up. Sentiment. But since it's been purposely faced down she's obviously been the heart breaker in this situation and the fact that she's decided to leave in the light of the news of the end of days suggests that she's been unhappy for quite sometime, she's probably had a few affairs throughout your relationship with her, wouldn't doubt it. Now onto to your obsession with danger. Well, who else would leave the comfort of their warm flat to confront a total stranger over something so trivial as knocking over some bins? You're bored, you're tired. You'll do anything not to be bored, won't you? Including inviting the aforementioned stranger into your flat for a cup of tea, am I wrong?"

"That was...amazing." John stared at Sherlock with awe.

Sherlock lifted his brows. "Really?"

"Yes."

"That's not what people usually say."

"And what do people usually say?"

Sherlock smirked, "Piss off." John smiled at him and walked over to take a seat next to Sherlock.

"So you know my story already it seems. What's yours?"

"Ah, life stories, not really my area."

"That's not fair."

"I didn't ask for your life story, you're just so painfully obvious that it just fell right into my lap." Sherlock sunk more comfortably in the couch and crossed his legs.

"Well, I'm sorry not all of us are freaky geniuses. Haven't you got any family?"

"Yes." The pointed way Sherlock said that word suggested that was all he had to say on the matter.

"I have a sister. She's all I have. Mum died when we were nine-"

Sherlock uncrossed his legs and sighed, here we go.

"-Haven't really spoken to my dad in about seven years." John looked at Sherlock, "I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this. I'm sure you don't want to waste precious time listening to me prattle on."

"No, it's, um, fine. It's all fine. There's not much really to do anyways. Except wait. Might as well make a new friend. Mummy always tried to get me to do that as child, never saw the point, all the other kids were just so... _dull_ and trust me it only gets worse with age."

"So you have a mother then?' John prompted.

"Yes, and a father and a ridiculous older brother." Sherlock started to tap his foot against the coffee table.

"Why aren't you with them if you don't mind me asking?" John asked.

"I don't know."

"Don't you have anything to say to them?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, "Nothing good."

"Wow," John leaned back into the couch and crossed his legs.

"Why aren't you with your sister?"

"My sister lives in Ireland with her girlfriend, Clara. The only way to get to her is on a ferry. The ferries stopped making trips two days ago and I missed it. I was fifteen minutes late," John swallowed and dug his fingernails into his palm. "It's the end of the world but it doesn't matter because I'm still fifteen minutes late." John said, his voice trembling a bit.

"I'm....sorry to hear that." Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, oh, John wasn't going to start crying now, was he?

John simply took in a deep breath through his nose and put his hands on his knees, "It's alright. Harry is a bit of a romantic, she sort of thought it was sadly poetic that we couldn't see each other one last time. We had a nice long talk though. We were able to say things we should have said to one another a long time ago. It was nice. I just wish I could have seen her one last time, you know?'

"Er, um, I'm sure you'll see each other again....in...Heaven?" Sherlock cleared his throat. That's what people liked to hear, right? They liked to believe in foolish things like eternal life after death. They take comfort in the fact that there may be some fluffy cloud castle in which they could frolic around in for ever and ever. However, John burst out in a loud fit of laughter.

"Oh, my god," He breathed through bouts of laughter. "That was the cheesiest thing I have ever heard!" Tears sprang up into his eyes, what Sherlock said wasn't particularly funny but how long had it been since John got the chance to laugh? Sherlock smirked at John and then began to chuckle, and before he knew he began to laugh in earnest right along side John.

When the laughter finally subsided, John cleared his throat and sighed, "I think the waters boiled." He smiled one last time at Sherlock and lifted himself of the couch and walked toward the kitchen.

"So," John said loudly from the kitchen, "Where do you-"

There was loud crash of glass shattering as a large brick was thrown through John's kitchen window. John immediately ducked to the floor as Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran to the kitchen. He crouched next to John, "Are you alright?" He said helping John up on his knees.

"Yeah, I'm fine. What the hell was-" John froze at the sound of loud crashing, glass shattering, and car alarms going off.

There was loud cursing and yelling from the street, screams of anger and some of agony.

"Riot," Sherlock whispered. "Keep your head down," He stood up and walked slowly to peek out of the broken window. "Shit," He ducked back down to John. "The crowd is small but they're savages out there. We need to get out of here, now."

"My car's right outside, do you think we'll be able to make there?" John whispered.

Sherlock bit his lip and stood up to take another quick look outside. "Maybe, but we have to be quick. We have to go now!"

John jumped to his feet and grabbed his keys from the counter, "Let's go!" They both ran out the front door and stopped dead in their tracks as they saw the scene before them. People were running around with bats, hammers, shovels, bashing in everything that stood still long enough. Some fighting each other savagely, one man had another by the collar of his shirt and was smashing his face with his fist repeatedly. Blood was spurting out of the semi conscious man's nose. John looked at his parked car and sighed with relief, no one had bothered to destroy it yet. He turned to look at Sherlock, "Come on!"

They both ran in a dead sprint towards the car, they only needed to make it a few feet and they were home free. John pushed hard with his thumb against the unlock button on his car key and heard the beautiful sound of the locks popping up.

"Get in!" John shouted as he opened his door and threw himself into the drivers seat. As he was putting on his seat belt he saw Sherlock slide across the hood of the car, landing on his feet and yanking open the passenger door. As Sherlock slid in, John heard a crash and felt small pieces of glass showering the back of his neck. He turned around to see someone had thrown another brick through one of the backseat windows, the brick landed with a heavy thud against the bottom of the car floor.

"John, drive!" Sherlock shouted.

John hands were shaking as he struggled to put the key into the ignition, "Shit! Shit!"

"John, John, now! We need to go now!" More and more people were starting to make their way over to John's car, weapons poised and ready to take a swing at whatever they could reach.

John noticed this, panicked and dropped the keys by his feet.

"John!" Sherlock was shouting now. "John, they're coming!"

John reached down and groped around for the keys and thankfully the tips of his fingers felt the cool metal of his keys by the gas pedal. He pulled them up and hands began to shake violently as he tried to find the right key among the many he had on the key ring.

"John, look at me," John complied and stared in the cool, pale blue eyes. "I know a man with a plane, if you can get us out of here, I can get you to your sister."

John took one last moment to look into the eyes that had an immediate calming effect on him, he took a deep breath, jammed the keys into the ignition and stomped on the gas pedal. They sped off down the street and away from the chaos that ensued behind them.

Once they had driven far away from the destruction Sherlock relaxed into his seat and exhaled a breath he didn't know he had been holding in.

John looked over at Sherlock who was leaning his head against the headrest with his eyes closed, "So tell me about this plane."  
  


* * *

 

They drove in silence while John drove through all sorts of wreckage throughout the city until they hit the expressway and made their way towards the British countryside. The man Sherlock knew lived about a days drive away and had his own personal aircraft

"He used to be an airplane pilot," Sherlock explained. "He loved to fly."

"And how do you know he'll be so keen to do a favor for a complete stranger?" John asked looking over at Sherlock.

"He's no stranger to me. He'll do it." Sherlock said evenly, staring out his window.

An hour or so into their drive the adrenaline began to wear off and John's eyelids began to droop.

"Would you like me to take over?" Sherlock offered.

"Yes, Please," John grumbled as he pulled over. When John and Sherlock settled themselves into their new seats Sherlock turned the ignition and pushed lightly on the gas pedal. "You know, I always had a feeling it'd all be over too soon." John said as he looked out the window and up at the bright full moon.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"I always sort of knew I'd never see myself as an old man."

"Really?" Sherlock took one hand off the steering wheel and took out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

"Yeah." John said as his forehead landed with a thump against the window.

"I always thought I'd live forever. Nothing could take me down, not without a fight. Have you got a light by any chance?"

"No." John answered.

"Damn," Sherlock grumbled, the cigarette still clamped between his lips.

"Those things will kill you, you know." John said with a sideways glance at Sherlock.

"I highly doubt lung cancer is gonna be the thing that kills me." Sherlock said rolling his eyes.  
John began to doze off when he was roused again by Sherlock gently shaking him.

"John, John, wake up!" He whispered.

"What's happening? What time is it?" John answered sleepily.

"It's past midnight. I think we're being pulled over," John opened his eyes to find the car being filled up with flashing blue lights. "Is he serious?" Sherlock asked incredulously looking over his shoulder.

"I think he is, pull over."

"No, I think I can lose him." Sherlock said pushing down slightly more on the gas.

"No, no you can't! Pull over!" John said banging his hand against the dashboard.

"What?" Sherlock said looking over at John. "Come on, what could he possibly do? Shoot us?"

"That's a very real possibility, pull over now!" Sherlock glared at John before pulling over to the side of the road. Sherlock watched the officer step out from his car from the rear view and rolled down his window as the officer approached their car.

"Is there a problem, officer?" Sherlock said a bit too politely.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" The officer asked.

"Not a clue."

"You right brake light is faulty." The officer responded while scribbling something down on his notepad.

"Is that all?"

"You were also going over the speed limit, I'm gonna need to see your license, sir."

"Ah, well you see this isn't my car. It's actually my friend John's," he gestured towards John. "And you see, neither of us have any sort of identification on us because we both had to flee for our lives to escape a deadly riot. Considering the fact that there is meteor on it's way to bring us to our untimely end do you think you can forego the law for just this one day and send us on our way?" Sherlock glanced over at John, giving him a wink before looking back to the officer.

"Absolutely not."

* * *

  
"Can I at least get a phone call?!" Sherlock demanded as the officer shoved him into an empty cell opposite of John.

"Sorry, phones are dead." The officer gave Sherlock one last smile before rounding the corner and out of their sight.

John was standing with his arms crossed staring at Sherlock. Sherlock anxiously ran his hands through his hair. "John, I know what you're thinking. But don't worry-"

"Don't worry? We're in jail, Sherlock!" John exclaimed throwing his hands in the air.

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry I ruined your life." Sherlock sat down on the bunk and stared at the concrete floor. John stepped forward and leaned his forehead against the cell bars.

"You didn't ruin my life. I did that pretty much all on my own." John sighed and looked at Sherlock who had his face buried in his hands.

"John-"

"No, really. I stopped talking to my own father over a petty argument. I dated a girl I didn't even love because I was just so afraid of being alone. And I was the one who was fifteen minutes late for the ferry. I fucked up my own life. Not you."

Sherlock lifted his face from his hands and looked at John.

"John, I swear if there's anything I can do-"

"Tell me about your family." John asked locking eyes with Sherlock.

"What? Why?" Sherlock said furrowing his brows.

John shrugged, "I just want to hear about them. Tell me about your family."

Sherlock leaned back on his bunk and rested the tips of both his hands underneath his chin.

"My mother is a mathematician. She's quite brilliant, written a few books actually."

"That's amazing. Brilliant, you say? Then you obviously take after her then."

Sherlock smiled.

"My father's the sane one, I suppose. He's always been my mother's cheerleader in a way. You'd never see two people more in love. They almost never fought, not in front of Mycroft and I anyways."

"Mycroft?"

"My brother." Sherlock answered.

"Jesus, what were your parents thinking? How did you survive primary school with names like Sherlock and Mycroft?" John said with a chuckle. "How do you even form a nickname from names like that?"

"I don't do nicknames." Sherlock answered curtly.

There was a pause before Sherlock heard John call out, "Sherly?"

"Stop."

"Lockie?"

"John, I am warning you-"

"What about Shezza?" Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice.

"I'm not talking to you anymore." Sherlock turned in his bunk so that his back was facing John.

"Awww, come on, Sherlock, I was just joking."

Sherlock didn't answer him and after a while John stopped pestering him. After a few moments of silence Sherlock heard John singing softly.

" _Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,_

_They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe._ "

Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of John's voice.

" _Nothing's gonna change my world,_

_Nothing's gonna change my world,_

_Nothing's gonna change my world._ "

* * *

  
Both John and Sherlock were awoken by the sounds of someone shouting, "For God's sake, Anderson!"

Sherlock jumped with a start and laid his eyes on a grey haired man clutching a cup of coffee. He looked over at John, who had fallen sleep with his back against the bars, as he was slowly getting up to his feet. The grey haired man reached into his pocket and dug out a huge key ring and and began to unlock John's cell door.

"Sorry about this," The man said as he swung open John's door. "Anderson's been taking his job a bit too seriously lately."

"It's alright." John said rubbing his neck.

The man sighed and looked at the two men, "Come on, I'll get you guys some breakfast."

13 DAYS.


	2. Breathing In, Come Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my very good friend, Shelby (A.K.A sherlpernatural on tumblr!)
> 
> Without her, I'd never have written this in the first place!

The gray haired man, whose name turned out to be Greg Lestrade, gave them a breakfast of coffee and blueberry muffins. 

"You two are lucky we don't care to impound cars anymore," Greg said dropping John's car keys into John's open palm.

"Thanks," John said through a mouthful of muffin.

"Where are you two headed?" Greg said settling down in his seat with a fresh cup of coffee.

"Drafton," Sherlock replied. 

"Not too far from here. About six hours. Going to see family?" Greg leaned back into his seat and crossed his legs.

"Sort of," Sherlock said taking a sip of his black coffee. "I'm taking John to see his sister."

"That's good. See your family while you still can, I just came here to close down the old place one last time. There's no point coming down here. Not anymore. Gonna spend the rest of my days with the wife and family."

"As you should," Sherlock looked over at John who had started on his fourth muffin. "John, we really should be going now. Are you ready?"

"I guess," John replied. He looked over at Greg, "You should be getting on too."

"I will," Greg stood up and lifted his hand out to Sherlock, "Good luck out there, both of you."

Sherlock took his hand, "Thank you."

Greg watched from the front doors of the precinct as Sherlock and John got into the car. John gave one last wave through the car window before settling back and turning the ignition. 

"He was nice," John said as they pulled out of the parking lot. 

"He was," Sherlock said wrapping his blue scarf around his neck. "Too bad his wife was having an affair with the gym teacher."

John's head snapped to the side to look at Sherlock, "What a bitch!"

\------------------------------------  
John turned on the radio on in search of one the few stations that still decided to play music. When he finally landed on one that was playing an up-beat tune Sherlock immediately shut it off.

"My car, my rules," John snapped as he pushed the power button to turn the radio back on with his index finger.

"I'd rather be crushed by a giant meteor than listen to this," Sherlock whined as he dramatically flung himself back against his seat.

"Well, if you hang on just a week longer your dream just might come true." 

They were silent again as they drove out of the small town and onto an empty two lane road. The drove past lush greenery and every so often they passed herds of sheep and cows form local farm owners who had apparently decided to set their animals free. It wasn't until they were an hour in that John opened his mouth to speak again, "You know, I always thought that if faced with the exact moment of my death I'd be a little bit of mess." 

Sherlock, who had been leaning his head against the head rest with his eyes closed, opened one eye and said, "If you're not a mess, then what are you?"

John considered this for a moment before saying, "I don't think I'm anything." Keeping his eyes locked on the road. Not daring to look at Sherlock who he knew was now staring straight at him, giving him his full attention. 

"What do you- John!" Sherlock yelled pointing towards the steering wheel.

"What? What's the matter now-" John stopped when he noticed exactly what the matter was. The little red tick on the fuel gauge was dangerously close to landing on "E". 

"We're going to run out of gas and we're in the middle of nowhere! Didn't you ever think to stop and fill up the tank?" Sherlock said sharply.

"Oh, how foolish of me! When a mad man is in my car yelling at me while fucking lunatics are throwing bricks at my car, the first thing I should have done was stop at my local petrol station before going out on the road!" John yelled, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock's lips were in a tight line.

"What do you suppose we're going to do when this car inevitably runs out of gas?" Sherlock crossed his arms and glared right back into John's remarkably blue eyes before John turned his head and faced the road once more.

"I hope you're wearing comfortable shoes."  
______________________________________________

As Sherlock had so brilliantly deduced, the car did eventually run out of gas. 

"Hurry up, slow poke!" John yelled over his shoulder, he stopped to let Sherlock catch up to him. He turned around to look at Sherlock who was slowly limping his way toward John. "It's those shiny, posh shoes you're wearing! They've got to be giving you blisters by now!" 

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled back. They had been walking the road for about an hour when John noticed Sherlock was starting to lag behind with a slight limp. Luckily, John was wearing his favorite pair of trainers that he usually wore to work. When John suggested Sherlock might feel better if he walked barefoot, Sherlock merely scoffed and tried to contain the wince on his face as he took a particularly painful step. He'd never admit it to John, but after a while he felt like he was wearing irons on his feet, every step he took was as if Satan himself was pinching his feet. 

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock! Swallow your pride and just take them off!" John planted his feet to the ground and crossed his arms. "There's no bother trying to hide it! I know you're in pain! I'm not taking another step until you take them off."

Sherlock glared at John, "Fine!" Sherlock yelled resignedly. "Fine! At least there's no one around to see me walking around like a barefoot idiot anyways!" He leaned over to yank off his shoes. He tried to hide the look of relief on his face when his feet were free of their uncomfortable, leather hell. 

Sherlock straightened himself with all the dignity he could muster while wearing nothing but a pair of black socks on his feet. 

"Shut up. I swear if I hear one joke, I will kill you." He said as he picked up his shoes and shoved his way past John.

"Kill me?" John said good-naturedly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and jogging up to Sherlock. "A bit harsh."

There was a pause.

"How would you do it?" John asked.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

"Let's play a game. Let's play Murder. How would you kill me, if given the chance?" John bit his lip and looked at Sherlock. 

"Oh, that's easy! I think poisoning you is my best bet. You're so trusting, you'd take anything I'd give you," Sherlock smiled, satisfied with his answer. 

"Is that so? Huh, now let's see, how would I kill you...?"

Sherlock scoffed, "That would be highly ambitious of you." 

"Hit you with a car and drive off before any witnesses see?" John tried.

"Please, John. I know various different ways to avoid getting severely hurt if someone were to hit me with a car. For example, if you time it just right, you can jump-"

"Stabbing?"

"You'd probably have to engage in some sort of altercation with me and given that fact that I am significantly taller than-"

"I could pull the brakes from your car," 

"Child's play, I don't even have a car, John," A smile was creeping on Sherlock's face now.

"What about if I sniper you from a lonely bell tower?" 

"That could work. But how are you ever going to get me near a bell tower within shooting distance?" 

They continued on like this for a while. Plotting pretend ways to kill one another, John wracking his brain desperately trying to find a way to stump Sherlock, who seemed to have counter response to every idea John came up with. 

It was perhaps midday when John and Sherlock eventually came across a lonely house resting next to an old barn.

"I can't possibly walk anymore. We've been walking for ages." John leaned over to put his hands on his knees, panting a bit. The barn and house were a few yards out from the road. With one last look at Sherlock, John stepped off the road and onto the grass and made his way towards the barn. 

"John!" Sherlock jogged to catch up to John, who was walking determinedly towards the his destination. "John, what are you doing?" 

"We're going to spend the in the night in that barn. I know it's a bit dodgy, but at least it has a roof. The sun will be setting in a few hours and I don't like the thought of us walking on a lonely road at night. Who knows what type of people are out there nowadays."

"Oh, and you think these people are just gonna let two strangers set up camp on their property?" 

"Actually, I was sort of hoping you would keep your voice down!" John hissed at Sherlock. "Listen, it's gonna be night soon. We need somewhere to stay. A place has presented itself! We'll stay for the night and leave very early in the morning, they'll never know!"

"And what if they find us before dawn?" Sherlock asked.

"I hope you're a fast runner!" John gave Sherlock a cheeky grin as they arrived to the front door of the barn. 

John walked toward the large door and yanked on the handle. "I think it's stuck." John grunted as he gave braced once foot against the barn and gave one big pull. 

The door groaned as John wrenched it open. "Got it!" John peeked his head inside, the barn was completely desolate, John waved away the dust particles floating around his face, the air inside was still and warm. John took a step into the barn. It was small with only three horse stables one each side and nothing but a forgotten and very large bale of hay in the center of the space. 

"It's looks okay so far," John sniffed, the air smelled faintly of cow droppings and neglect. "Nothing that would put us in any immediate danger, except maybe if we anger the ghost of an old cow or something." 

Sherlock stepped through the door and gave the barn a once over.

"It smells like something died in here." Sherlock's face was scrunched up as he inhaled the inescapable smell.

"Well, get used to it. It's either here or trying your odds out on the road," John walked over to the bale of hay and lifted himself on top of it. It was hard and really scratchy, but it could make a decent bed. "And quite frankly, I don't see the odds being in your favor." He grunted as he leaned back to rest on his make-shift bed, clasping his hands on the back of his head. The roof was in worse shape than the rest of the barn, John guessed that if a bird so much as landed on the roof it'd collapse and crush him and Sherlock in their sleep. He closed his eyes, out of sight out of mind. 

"Why not?" He heard Sherlock ask indignantly. 

John chuckled, "Well, just look at you! So posh, so clean! You've probably never had to rough it before, never had night's sleep outside of your warm, cozy bed in your warm, cozy flat. I bet you've never even been camping! You wouldn't last ten minutes!"

"Oh, and what? Are you some survivalist? Can you build a roaring fire out of twigs and a packet of gum? Can you build us a feast of wild rabbits from the snares you've made out of pen caps and floss because if you can I'd just love that!"

Sherlock rounded on John who looked irritatingly comfortable spread onto the bed he'd made for himself. Smug Bastard. What made him so sure of himself?

"I'm not a survivalist," John said opening one eye and raising his brow. "I'm a soldier. Trust me, I've had to live in worse conditions than this. This hay is a fluffy cloud compared to some of the stuff I've had to sleep on," John closed his eye once more and snuggled in deeper. Well, as snugly you could get on a bed made out of hay.

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"I'm going outside!" Sherlock shouted in a way that reminded John of a whiny teenage girl. 

"Keep your voice down and stay out of sight of the house! Don't want you getting shot by some old farmer!" John heard Sherlock's footsteps growing fainter as he was lulled into a deep sleep.

_____________________________________________________

It was dark when John awoke hours later. 

His stomach gave a jolt and his heart started to beat a little faster as he was trying to piece together where he was. He sat up. 

The door to the barn was still wide open and John could barely make out his surroundings by the light of the moon coming through it. He was in a barn, it was dark, and he was completely alone. Sherlock wasn't there. 

"Sherlock?" John called out. 

Silence.

Fear suddenly rippled through him, he felt his heart sinking. 

Sherlock had left him. 

Sherlock had finally seen his opportunity to ditch John. He felt like an idiot. What? Did he really think he and Sherlock were friends? It was the end of the world. Sherlock probably figured John would be his best bet to get where ever the hell he wanted to go. When they had to ditch the car Sherlock had probably seen the end of John's usefulness and waited until the right moment to make his escape.

John slid off the bale of hay and walked out into the open. He looked the left, to the right. Nothing.

John felt miserable. John felt hurt. But most of all John felt so incredibly lonely. 

It was dark and he was lonely and he was scared. Sherlock had lied to him. It had never truly felt like the end of the world until now. What was he to going to do? 

Just then, John heard the sound of footsteps and then finally, he saw a tall, slender figure round the corner of the left side of the barn. 

"Oh, John! You're awake, fantastic. I believe I’ve-" John didn't stop to think, he didn't care how foolish it was or how stupid he looked, he ran to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle as he pulled him into a tight hug. 

"John, what are..? What's...wrong?" Sherlock was tense as John held him, as the seconds ticked by he eventually relaxed and tentatively lifted his hands and rested them on John's back, not quite sure what to do.

After a while, Sherlock cleared his throat and John took the hint and released Sherlock from his vice-like embrace.

"I'm sorry, I just thought...it's nothing. Just glad to see you is all," John busied himself with a loose thread on his jumper. "Where were you by the way?" John said trying to sound as casual as possible. 

Sherlock stared at John, "I've... just been walking around, exploring the area a bit. It got awfully boring waiting for you to wake up." Sherlock inwardly cringed, he hoped John would ignore that last part. It's not like he was watching John sleep, he was just simply waiting for John to wake up. 

After Sherlock had decided John had had enough punishment after his comments toward Sherlock's survivalist skills, he walked back into the barn to find John sound asleep. Sherlock silently stepped toward the sleeping figure and stopped to stare at John's face. He looked years younger when his features were relaxed. He lips slightly pursed as he slowly took in deep breaths, in and out, in and out. His right index finger twitching every so often. His trigger finger. 

He looked so peaceful. So calm. Sherlock was envious of John. Since word of the meteor hit his ears, sleep had became an almost impossible task for him. How could he sleep? How could he sleep half of his days away when he knew there was so little time left to be had? He couldn't sleep knowing he could make those precious hours last. Spending those 3:00 a.m. mornings running the streets of London being alive. Feeling alive. 

"So what were you going to say?" John's voice snapped Sherlock back to the present.

"What?" 

"You were just about to say something?" 

"Oh, right. I’m sure that can wait until the morning." Sherlock looked up to the night sky. He had never seen so many stars in his lifetime. It was beautiful. 

"Do you know the constellations?" Sherlock blurted out in spite of himself.

"Umm, not really. Only just a few, really."

"Show me them. I don't want to die without knowing at least one." 

 

Sherlock nodded his head off toward the open field. He walked on and John followed.

Sherlock led John a little ways away from the barn and stopped. 

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Sherlock mused, looking up.

"They are," John breathed in the cold night air. John then dropped to his knees and leaned to lay on his back. "Sorry, but my legs still feel like jelly after walking all day," John patted the ground next to him. "Come on, lay with me. The stars look even better from this angle."

Sherlock did so and lay shoulder to shoulder with John. He took notice of the fact that John's hand was only inches away from his own.

"John, what did you mean earlier in the car?" Sherlock asked. "You said you were nothing. What does that mean?" 

"You remembered that? God, I don't know. That was stupid, that was just me being overly dramatic." 

"No it wasn't, you meant it. Tell me." 

"Since when do you care so much?" John said, propping himself on one elbow.

"Since now, just tell me." Sherlock snapped.

John sighed and flopped back down onto the grass.

"Well, I just never felt like I was... alive. Even before this whole end-of-days nonsense I was just sort of...surviving. I wasn't living. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't exactly depressed either. I couldn't feel a thing. Even after I caught wind of the meteor, I wasn't even scared or angry. I embraced the inevitable and accepted oblivion."

John turned his head to look at Sherlock who was still staring intently at the stars.

"I feel alive right now, though," Sherlock turned his head and their faces were only inches away from each other. The light from the moon and stars made John's face softer while it only made Sherlock's look even sharper, harsher. "I feel... I don't know what I feel exactly but all I know is that I'm feeling," John smiled at Sherlock. "And it feels great."

"The world is going to end," Sherlock stated, staring into John's eyes.

"I know," John said cupping his hands against the back of his head.

"The world is going to end," Sherlock repeated panic rising in his voice.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I think we've established-" 

"John," Sherlock whispered urgently. "The world is going to end."

"Sherlock-" John began softly but in one swift movement John found himself pinned to the ground as Sherlock rolled over and straddled John's hips, knees on either side of his waist. Their crotches pinned to one another, uncontrollable pleasure ripped through John.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Wha- What are you doing?" John felt stupid as soon as he heard the words leave his mouth. He knew exactly what Sherlock was doing.

John's breath caught in his throat when Sherlock leaned forward and rested his hands on the grass on either side of John's face.

"John," Sherlock whispered, leaning closer to John's face, leaving nothing but a breath of space between their lips. "Be my last." 

Sherlock closed the space between them by pressing his lips to John's. John's lips were stiff and unmoving at first. Shock rendering him unable to think properly let alone move. But gradually John melted into Sherlock's kiss, moving his lips along with Sherlock's, compliantly opening his mouth to let Sherlock's tongue enter. Their kissing shifted from slow and sweet to desperate, quick, messy. Both of them clumsily grabbing anywhere their fingers could reach. Shoulders, waists, hair, necks.  
John's heart was beating so hard, so fast he was sure Sherlock could feel it through the heavy fabric of his coat. When they finally broke apart John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's staring right back at him. His usually composed and calculating face was deliciously flushed. 

"John," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Please."

John took a moment to stare back into those eyes. The eyes he was doomed to think about for the rest of his two-week life. 

John reached up to run Sherlock's curls through his fingers. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he pushed his forehead against John's. 

He took in a deep, ragged breath. He swallowed hard and whispered, "Okay." 

And that's all he confirmation Sherlock needed.  
\------------------------------  
Afterwards, when they laid side by side, Sherlock felt a foreign feeling take over. His eye lids drooped, his whole body was relaxed, and he let his head rest against John’s shoulder. 

For the first time, Sherlock allowed sleep take over him. 

He had lived enough for one night. 

12 DAYS  
\--------------------------------------  
The air was cold and misty when John awoke the next morning. The sun hadn't come yet but John knew it must be early morning. For first few seconds of consciousness John was blissfully in the state of having no recollection of the events of the previous night.

Until it all hit him like smack in the face.

His eyes popped open and he sat straight up. Sherlock was laying with his back turned to John. 

"Jesus," John rested his arms on his knees and put his head down. 

What the hell?

"Good morning, John." He heard Sherlock say softly.

John lifted his head and looked over at Sherlock was shifting himself upright. Sherlock sat crossed legged next to John, his hands clasped together in his lap. John couldn't help appreciating how gorgeously mussed up Sherlock's hair was. 

"So do you wish to discuss the events that transpired like sixteen-year-old girls or do you wish to carry on like adults?" Sherlock said standing up and brushing grass off his shirt. 

"Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I've taken advantage of you-" 

John was cut off by Sherlock letting out a bark of laughter. 

"John, please. It was end-of-the-world-sex! Creature comfort!" Sherlock leaned over to pick up his coat from the damp ground. 

"Sherlock-"

"John, listen to me. It's fine. Really. A little sex was bound to happen, let’s not make a big deal out of it. I promise, it won't happen again."

John down at the grass.

"Alright."

"Come on, let's not make this uncomfortable. Besides, we need to get out of here before our farmer friends wake up. Follow me." Sherlock led John back across the field and behind the barn. 

Behind the barn was a big, green tractor. 

 

"What's this?" John asked, raising his brow.

"It's a tractor," Sherlock responded as if he was talking to a toddler. "And you think I'm the idiot." 

"I know what a bloody tractor is! I just don't know how it's supposed to relate to us." 

"Don't be an idiot, think! What could we possibly do with a vehicle with wheels?" Sherlock began to step towards the tractor, he ran a hand against the hood, feeling the layer of dirt and grime underneath his palm. Sherlock began to lift himself into the tractors seat.

"We can't steal these people's tractor! Besides, don't you need keys for that?" John asked stepping up to the tractor. Sherlock reached out his hand to help John up. The tractor's seat was roomy but they still were very squished against one another. If either one of them so much as shifted too much they were in danger of knocking the other off the seat completely. 

"We're borrowing it! And also, I may have done some burglary during your post-coital sleep," Sherlock reached in to his pocket and pulled out a key. "Country folk are so trusting, leaving so many doors unlocked!"

"Christ, do you even know how to work this thing?"

"You underestimate me, John." Sherlock said with a smile as he jammed the key into the ignition.  
__________________________________________

"I can't believe you know how to drive a tractor!" John said for the umpteenth time.

Sherlock rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time. "You keep saying that like it's a huge surprise." 

"It is! Where'd you even learn?" John asked, shifting carefully in his seat, not wanting to accidentally knock Sherlock onto the street while the tractor was still in motion.

"I was once able to get a man off a murder charge because I was able to prove he couldn't have been at the crime scene at the time they believed him to be by learning the simple mechanics of a tractor." 

John contemplated suicide for the next twenty minutes as Sherlock then went into a deep one-sided conversation about the average tractor speeds and the complications that can cause your motor to stall. 

"Hey, I got an idea!" John interrupted. "Let's a play a game, okay? Let's see which one of us can stay quiet the longest, hm? Starting now, shhh." 

Sherlock pursed his lips and almost made it to two minutes before, "John, this game is stupid. Let's play Murder instead."

"Ah! No. We are never playing Murder again!" 

"Why not?" 

"Because it's not actually possible to jump off a roof and survive the fall, Sherlock!"  
________________________________________

"I have never felt more silly in my entire life." John said as they continued on their slow drive toward Drafton.

"At least we're mobile again, and stop complaining. You're not the one without shoes!" Snapped Sherlock as he wiggled his toes.

"Sherlock...?" John started slowly.

"Hm?"

"What's gonna happen when we..?" John cleared his throat. "What's gonna happen to us when-"

"When we arrive at our destination?" Sherlock said with a quick glance at John. 

'Yeah,"

"Well, we'll part ways. Probably give each other a good, firm handshake and then you'll get on the plane and be on your way. You'll be reunited with your sister and then we'll all die." 

"The end," John chuckled nervously. "Sherlock I just wanted to thank you. For...doing this for me. All of this." 

Sherlock gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, "It's my pleasure." He looked over at John who's hair was shining in the mid-morning sunlight. In that moment, Sherlock could see the young man John had once been. By the way he licked his lips every few minutes, by the way he stretched his legs every so often. 

Sherlock felt a quick ache in his heart, if only he had got to meet John sooner. If only he known the John five years ago. The army Doctor. Or even the John twenty- five years ago. The young rugby and clarinet player. Why did it have to be now? 

Why did he have to meet the John who was doomed to die in less than two weeks?

After a silent and pleasantly uneventful two hour drive, John and Sherlock had arrived to the small town of Drafton.

"So this is where your guy lives?" John asked as they drove through the empty streets. They passed looted shops with broken windows and sometimes small groups of people, large bags in tow, some even carrying sidearms. 

"This place hasn't changed at all since the last time I visited." Sherlock mused. “Except the destruction to the town’s shops is a bit new.”

"When was the last time you were here?" 

"Christmas, I think. Christmas is the one with all the silly lights and pine trees and annoying people trespassing on your property to sing, correct?"

"That's the one."

The pair finally arrived to a large, red house on the near the edge of town. As they pulled in, Sherlock turned off the ignition and leaned back in his seat, taking in the scene before him. 

Sherlock's lips were in a tight line before he turned to John, "Shall we?" Sherlock slid down onto the tractor steps and hopped gracefully onto the soft grass. John followed suit and tried to catch up to Sherlock who had already made his way through the gate onto the steps.

Sherlock knocked on the wooden door as John caught up.

"So who is this guy anyways?" John asked.

Before Sherlock could answer, the chipping door opened with a groan and revealed the man standing behind it. He was a tall man, wearing three-piece suit and loafers. The man's eyes widened for half a second before composing themselves back into their aloof stare. 

"Brother, dear, we were certainly hoping you'd show up. You do know how you worry mummy."

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said curtly. "This is John."

Mycroft's eyes zeroed in on John. John knows that stare. It's the same stare Sherlock gave John when they first met. He was figuring him out with just one look.

"Oh, where are my manners? Come in, both of you. And for good heavens, Sherlock, I know it’s the end of the world but why aren't you wearing any shoes?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> At this point I've decided that this fic gets updated whenever I have the free time, It's better for me if I don't have any deadlines hanging over my head, but I will promise that this story won't go months without an update! 
> 
> Title from "Crystalline Green" by Goldfrapp


	3. How Did I Know You So Well? After Only One Night?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet one another two weeks before the end of the world.

"Mother is awfully furious with you, Sherlock," Mycroft started. "We haven't heard from you in a week, she was starting to suspect the worse."

"I had some things to take care of," Sherlock said offhandedly.

Mycroft led them through the house and into the sitting room where a gray haired Mrs. Holmes was sitting with a large book in her hands. Sherlock cleared his throat and Mrs. Holmes looked up at the sound, she gasped at the sight of Sherlock. The book she held fell from her hands as she jumped from her chair and threw her arms around Sherlock. 

"Oh, Sherlock I was so worried! Oh, I'm so glad you're all right!' Mrs. Holmes said breathlessly. "You have a lot of explaining to do before I smack the clever from your mouth!" She released Sherlock from her embrace.

John awkwardly hung back under the threshold that connected the kitchen and the sitting room. "You said you'd come home but a week later still a no show! And then the phones lines disconnect and we had no way to get in touch with you! Do you how worried sick your father and I were? We thought something terrible had happened to you!"

Mrs. Holmes eyes snapped to John when she took notice of the fact that there was one more man in the room who was not one of her sons. 

"Who are you?" She asked, crossing the room to John. 

John straightened himself, "Oh, I'm-"

"He's a friend," Sherlock interjected. "He's my friend."

John and Sherlock stared at each other, a hint of a smile on Sherlock's face. Just then, they heard a voice call from the other room. 

"Mother, Father has arrived." 

John scrambled out of the way as Mycroft walked through the threshold with another man. He was tall and gray haired, there was no doubt that this was Mr. Holmes. Sherlock was the spitting image of Mr. Holmes, except the eyes. Those eyes he certainly got from his mother. 

Mr. Holmes immediately took notice of Sherlock and he pulled him into a strong hug. 

"Since when do we hug so much in this family?" Said Sherlock, somewhat annoyed. His voice was muffled as Mr. Holmes held his face trapped against his shoulder. Mr. Holmes released his son. 

"Sherlock, you know how things have changed. We can't afford to not do this sort of thing anymore," Mr. Holmes walked over to where Mrs. Holmes was standing and gave her a peck on the lips. "We should all be thankful that we're finally together again."

Mrs. Holmes released her grip on Mr. Holmes and said, "I should get started on dinner for you boys. You probably haven't eaten in days! Welcome to our home, John and please make yourself at home."

Then with one last look at her sons, Mrs. Holmes excused herself from the room.

"Don't be fooled, she's really overjoyed to see you," Mr. Holmes said, speaking finally. "Cried for ages when she thought you weren't coming." 

Mr. Holmes removed his faded green coat and rested it atop the chair Mrs. Holmes had just been occupying.

"You two boys are exactly like her, you know. You act all cold and tough on the outside but on the inside you guys are all cuddles and love."

"Please do us a favor and stop talking," Mycroft said with a glance at his watch. "Oh, how can it only be noon?"

With a sigh, Mycroft walked briskly from the room. Mr. Holmes walked over to Sherlock and held out a hand. Slowly, Sherlock lifted his hand and gave his father's a firm shake. John looked away, he felt like he wasn't meant to see this. It felt intimate, something that went much deeper than just a handshake. 

"Well, I should go in and help your mother, then," Mr. Holmes released Sherlock's hand and look at John. "I'm sure Sherlock can help you get set up in the guest room...?"

"John," John looked up and smiled. "John Watson."

“Right, very nice to meet you, John, feel free to stay as long as you need,” Mr. Holmes’s attention turned back to Sherlock. “I’m really glad your home.”

Mr. Holmes gave his son one last pat on the shoulder and left.

Sherlock and John stood silently, looking at one another, the grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the room ticked on.

"So that's your family?" John asked.

"Yes,"

"They're lovely,"

Sherlock paused.

"I know."  
_____

Sherlock opened his mouth and watched the thick smoke billow from his mouth. He took another long, greedy drag of his cigarette, savored it, then exhaled. He let his head drop back. God, how long he had been waiting for this. 

After John went to shower, Sherlock went in search for a lighter, a match, any source of fire at all. Eventually, he managed to locate a silver lighter cleverly placed in one of Mycroft's hidden coat pockets. He stood in the back yard, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The personal aircraft sat shining on its launch pad a little ways off from the house in the afternoon sun. Sherlock glowered at it, then he squeezed his eyes shut. He was scared. It was time.

John, the only friend he had made in his entire life, was leaving him. Soon. 

Since they arrived, neither of them had said anything about the plane or Ireland. He didn't want John to go. 

"What is he to you?" 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He turned to see Mycroft standing behind him, leaning on an umbrella.

"What?"

"This John, what is he to you?" Mycroft repeated. "Certainly not a friend. You don't have friends. So tell me, why is he here?" 

"I owe him a favor. I promised to take him to his sister in Ireland," 

Mycroft's eyes flickered to the plane, understanding.

"Do you think father will be up for it?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock took one last drag of his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and grinding it out with tip of his shoe. "We shall see."  
_____  
The Holmes family and John were all settled at the table, eating a dinner of cooked ham and green beans.

Mrs. Holmes took a sip of wine from her glass then opened her mouth to speak, "So, John, I don't mean to sound harsh but I don't quite understand why you're here."

John moved his eyes from his plate to look at Sherlock, who was seated across from him. 

"I was hoping to bring this up later but seeing as you can't help poking your nose in everyone's business, I promised to see that John is reunited with his sister before the end of the world eradicates all life from this earth." 

Mrs. Holmes swelled. “Oh, Sherlock I don’t understand why you have to be so-“

“It’s the truth, mother. Accept it. The world is going to end and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.” Sherlock said harshly. 

He set his fork down slowly before looking at his father, who had his glass half raised to his lips.

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Father, as a favor to me, I was hoping you would fly John to Ireland.”

John’s silverware clinked loudly as he dropped them onto his plate. “If it’s too much trouble I don’t mind-“

“Flying at this time? I understand that times are terrible, John. But Sherlock, how could you ask you father such-“ Mrs. Holmes chimed in.

“It is the only thing I have ever asked of him-“ Sherlock shot back at his mother, now rising from his seat. 

John stood too. “Trust me, it’s fine! I know it’s a lot to ask for, especially coming from a stranger. I would never expect-“ 

“John, please-" Sherlock shouted.

“Will the lot of you shut up?” Said a voice loudly. They all looked over at Mycroft who had been sitting silently up until that point. He wiped the his mouth with a napkin before opening his mouth again. “I believe father would like to voice his opinion on this matter.”

All eyes were on Mr. Holmes as he shifted in his seat. 

“I’m old-“ Mr. Holmes started.

“Yes, he is. I don’t believe it would be best-“ Mrs. Holmes interrupted.

“I may be old,” Mr. Holmes said loudly, cutting off Mrs. Holmes. “But I’d fancy one last flight and that’s the end of the discussion,” He smiled at John. “When would you like to go?”

John stood silently, fiddling with his napkin, not wanting to look at Sherlock.

“As soon as possible,” Sherlock answered for him. “Let’s not waste anymore time.” 

Mr. Holmes smiled. “Tomorrow morning then. Excellent.”  
_____

John lay on his side on the large bed in the Holmes's guest room. He pulled the covers tightly and stared into the pitch black darkness. 

He should feel happy, relieved that he was going to see Harry and Clara soon. Well, he was happy but he also felt this ache in his chest whenever he thought about leaving. John couldn't deny that the reason of the ache was because of Sherlock. He felt stupid, he had only the known the man for what? Three days? And he was already so attached to this arrogant, skinny, obnoxious....brilliant, spectacular, and all around extraordinary man. He had finally met a person who made him feel so alive and now he had to say goodbye to him. 

John had always known that life was unfair, but he didn't know that it could also be this cruel. 

There was soft rapt at the door followed by a: "John?" 

John shot up, "Sherlock?' John reached over to turn on the lamp that rested on the bedside table. The lamp clicked on and cast an orange glow over the room, the door opened just enough to let Sherlock pop his head through. 

"I'm bored. May I come in?" 

"Uh, sure,"

Sherlock entered the room and let the door click shut behind him. 

There was a long and awkward pause before John scrambled to sit up in the bed and moved his legs, giving Sherlock room to sit at the edge of the bed.

"Uh, here. Um, you can have a seat if you like,"

Sherlock walked over and lowered himself onto the bed, he pulled his knees to his chest. 

"Can't sleep?" John asked, leaning back against the head board.

Sherlock simply shrugged, "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was awake,"

Sherlock cocked an eye brow, "Nervous flyer?' 

"What? Oh, you mean about the plane? No, well, I mean-"

"Liar, look at your nails, you've been biting them. Flying makes you anxious. Don't worry my father is one of the best flyers I've known, you're in the best hands possible."

"Good to know," John stared up at the ceiling and then back to Sherlock. "Listen, Sherlock. I'd just like to say thanks again. For everything. I can't tell you how thankful I am for you."

Sherlock smiled, "How are you and your sister going to spend your last few days in Ireland?"

John let out a sigh, "Harry has the most beautiful record player anyone has ever seen, along with the best records of all time. She has all of my favorites. I can't wait to listen to it again. I think we'll just sit around and talk and listen to music all day," John nudged Sherlock with his foot. "What are you gonna do here?"

"I imagine Mycroft and I will end up killing each other long before a meteor does,"

John laughed.

"You amaze me, John," Sherlock said softly.

"How?" 

"Over the course of the last month I've seen people killing themselves, killing other people. Losing their minds because they know they're going to die and yet here you are, sane as ever."

"I could say the same for you and your family. You guys seem so...well adjusted,"

"The Holmes' aren't afraid of anything, that's nothing new. However, you are. Like you said the other night, you didn't riot or join orgies when you first heard of the meteor. You weren't even angry or upset. I don't understand you, John. Why didn't you panic like everyone else?"

John sat quietly for a few moments, considering, before getting up and crawling across the bed towards Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Panicking,"

John closed the space between them, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, pulling his bottom lips between his own, biting and sucking roughly. 

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock's waist and held his head in place by the neck with his other hand. Sherlock slid his arm around John's torso and pulled him closer. 

"I thought you said this wouldn't happen again," Sherlock said breathlessly, breaking the kiss. 

"You were the one that said that, idiot," John smiled and roughly pulled Sherlock's mouth against his own once more. 

Sherlock's hands fisted in John's shirt as he pushed John down onto to the bed.  
_____

"I really could have fallen for you, John Watson,"

Sherlock and John lay naked together under the sheets in the darkness. Sherlock's head resting on John's chest, John's finger lightly trailing up and down Sherlock's spine.

John smiled, "Is that so?"

"Yes,"

"I wish we could have met sooner, like when we were kids or something," John said wistfully. 

"No," Sherlock said evenly. "It had to be now." 

"It's not fair," John whispered.

"It's not," Sherlock lifted himself up and kissed John. "You would have loved solving crimes with me. You would have loved it." Sherlock said against John's lips.

"I think I would have," John said, pulling Sherlock on top of him. "I would have really loved that."

11 DAYS.  
_____

The next morning the Holmes family and John stood out in the field, Mr. Holmes already seated in the cockpit. 

John and Sherlock stood facing one another, Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes stood respectfully out of ear shot. 

"I don't know what to say," John said.

"Neither do I," Sherlock replied, the strong gusts of wind from the propellers blowing Sherlock's curls back and forth. Sherlock thought for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak again. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"What?"

"My name, that's all of it,"

"John Hamish Watson, that's all of mine,"

"I wish I could have known you sooner," Sherlock said, his eyes sad. 

"Me too,"

"I've always had horrible timing," Sherlock offered his hand out, "To the very best of times, John."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Thank you, for everything." John took Sherlock's hand and shook it, he gave it one last squeeze before  
releasing it. He then turned and climbed up into the plane and settled in his seat next to Mr. Holmes. 

John watched the figures of Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft, and Sherlock get smaller and smaller until eventually, they disappeared all together and then there was nothing but sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First one to spot my blatant reference to Buffy the Vampire Slayer gets a cookie.
> 
> Title from "I'm Indebted to You" by Lana Del Rey 
> 
> Note: The end is near, guys! Last chapter to be up soon! (Hopefully)
> 
> ANOTHER note: This poor chapter was written and edited at an absurd hour, so please, forgive any and all errors!


	4. Thought That I Would Be Alone Forever, But I Won't Be Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet one another two weeks before the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is now.

Sherlock felt miserable as he watched the plane fly higher and higher until it was lost among the clouds.

"Sherlock..." He heard Mrs. Holmes say softly.

Sherlock simply spun on his heels and retreated back to the house without so much as a glance toward his mother or Mycroft. He went straight to the guest bedroom and threw himself face first onto the bed where he and John spent the night. He inhaled deeply through his nose, hoping for scent. Searching for anything that John may have left behind other than memories and a terrible ache in his chest. 

Nothing. No smell. No strands of hair. Nothing. John was forever a memory. That is all he ever will be. 

Sherlock began to think about John Watson, really think about him. He thought about all the things he didn't know about John Watson. 

Sherlock didn't know what John's favorite color was. He didn't know John's favorite movie. He didn't know what John liked to do in his free time. Did he like to read? Did he abhor the telly? How did he feel about dismembered body parts? He could deduce bits and pieces about John but he couldn't see the whole picture. Sherlock's thoughts went from trying to fill in the holes of John's life to what he left behind at 221B.  


He thought about the equipment he always left strewn about his tiny kitchen. He thought about the fingers he left in the fridge. The skull on his mantle. The books in his collection. His favorite chair. All the possessions he had to leave behind the night he got into the car with John. He mourned over the home he'd never return to. 

"I don't regret anything," Sherlock heard someone say from behind him. He turned over to see Mrs. Holmes standing underneath the threshold, leaning against the door frame. "I don't regret anything." She said again, this time with more finality.

Sherlock sat upright and said, "What don't you regret?"

"My life," She responded and fixed her gaze on Sherlock. "I wouldn't change a single thing about my life. I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Nothing?" Sherlock asked.

"Not a single thing." Mrs. Holmes looked at her youngest son and took a moment to admire how much Sherlock resembled his father. Her heart swelled when she saw Sherlock's wild curls piled atop his head, his hair was all mussed up and it reminded her of when he was a child. When he and Mycroft played pirates in the yard nearly everyday, even when it was pouring rain outside. When Sherlock would return home covered head to foot in mud after spending the day chasing frogs. When he still called her "Mummy". Now look at him, he's grown now. He's old, and she was old too. How could she have let time go by so fast? Mrs. Holmes walked forward and took Sherlock's hand in hers.

"If I could live my life over, I would do everything exactly the same. I would never change you, or Mycroft, or your Father," The grip she held tightened, her eyes began to water. "I am so proud of you and your Brother, my brilliant, brilliant boys."

Sherlock held his mother as she sobbed into his shoulder. He held her close and tried his very best to soothe her. After a while, Mrs. Holmes dislodged herself from their embrace and held Sherlock by his shoulders with both hands. 

"I don't want you to regret anything either, Sherlock. Especially John." Mrs. Holmes said, not breaking eye contact with her son.

"What?"

"Do not regret John Watson," She started again. "Do not regret meeting him. Although your time together was short, it was something special, wasn't it? I don't know about you but I'd rather have a few days of something special than a lifetime of nothing at all."

"Mother, I..."

"I understand a lot more than you give me credit for, Sherlock."

They shared a silence that was full of knowing and understanding, neither of them had to speak. 

"And lastly, Sherlock," She cupped her Sherlock's cheek with her hand. "Do not regret letting John go. Letting him go was the least selfish and most admirable thing you will ever do. A sacrifice as big as that truly shows how much you cared for that man. I don't want you to regret a single thing, darling."

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, trying his best to keep his voice steady. "I don't."  
_____

At the age of seven, Sherlock was given a puppy named Redbeard. He had been named after a pirate Sherlock had read about in one of his story books. Sherlock had adored Redbeard, almost instantly he had fallen in love with the canine. Redbeard always followed Sherlock wherever he went, the two were positively inseparable. When Sherlock was eleven, Redbeard got very ill. Canine Distemper. Highly contagious among dogs. Symptoms included: Vomiting, Diarrhea, abdominal pain, and sometimes even convulsions. The elderly veterinarian with large, gold wired spectacles told the family that treatment was fairly expensive and often unsuccessful.

Redbeard was put down the very same day.

"It's for the best." Sherlock's mother had said.

"He was a good dog, the best friend a man could ask for." His father had said.

"It's the only humane thing to do, would you rather him be in absolute misery?" Mycroft had said. 

Sherlock had wept for days, no one had ever seen him cry so much before. 

And no one had seen him cry since.

Now Sherlock was thirty-six and had successfully kept anyone from getting too close to him. That is, until recently. That is, until John Watson. Sherlock was outside again, he was standing next to the tree where they had laid Redbeard to rest. He stared up at the clouds slowly drifting in the sky, he had calculated the flight to and from Ireland would take approximately two hours and thirty-seven minutes. It had only been and hour and seventeen minutes since John's departure. 

"You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?" 

"You should really stop doing that, you know." Sherlock said, turning to face Mycroft. 

"Doing what?"

"Sneaking up on people like that," Sherlock replied, pulling out his last carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket. "It doesn't make you seem more mysterious or wise or whatever."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, brother dear." Mycroft said, leaning forwards as Sherlock lit his cigarette for him. 

"Do you remember The East Wind?"

"Hm?" Replied Mycroft distractedly as he contemplated the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. 

"When I was younger you used to tell me the story of The East Wind almost every night," He smirked. "You always would finish the story by saying that The East Wind was coming for me. I would lie awake on windy nights, terrified that the wind would rip off the roof and take me away." 

Mycroft smiled, the memory coming back to him. 

"You were a rubbish big brother by the way, always meant to tell you."

"My intent was to help you better yourself." Mycroft started, which only received a snort from Sherlock.

"Really? Perhaps you should have worked on your story telling skills a bit." Sherlock smiled at his brother and he meant it, he really meant it. 

"Well, I guess now is a good a time as any to apologize, correct? That's what people do, don't they? Makes amends before they die, make sure they don't leave any loose ends?"

"I guess," Sherlock paused and pursed his lips before saying, "You've been taking the news well."

"News?" Mycroft experimentally blew out smoke through his nostrils. 

"Meteor, destruction, death, all that."

"Oh, yes...that. Well, I don't see the point in worrying about it."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "Why not?"

Mycroft shrugged. "All lives end, all hearts are broken. Nobody lives forever."

"I see,"

"I'm not a man of many emotions, Sherlock. I find emotional relationships rather bothersome and convoluted," Mycroft took one last drag from cigarette and dropped to the floor, grinding it out with the heel of his polished shoe. "But.... your loss breaks my heart."

Sherlock let out a choking noise. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!"

Mycroft pursed his lips, "Nothing, I suppose." 

They were both silent for a moment, Sherlock gaze locked onto a patch of grass by Mycroft's feet. Mycroft's gaze strictly on a branch from the tree. 

"I guess the game is over." Sherlock said finally.

Mycroft's eyes snapped to his brother's face. "The game is never over, Sherlock. Remember that. Always."

Sherlock was about to respond when they heard a yell from the house.

"Boys!" Mrs. Holmes was yelling through the kitchen window. "Boys, come quick! There's something on the telly!"

Mycroft and Sherlock ran towards the house and into the the main room where Mrs. Holmes was standing in front of the telly, wringing her hands nervously.

"They say they have urgent news about the meteor!" 

The three of them watched in utter silence, not daring to even breathe. Mrs. Holmes turned up the volume as the newscaster addressed the cameras. 

"Once again, our latest report is that Matilda will be arriving one week ahead of schedule. The point of contact is now ninety-six hours away."

Sherlock felt Mrs. Holmes grab his hand. The newscaster continued.

"On a personal note, this will be my last broadcast. Our final broadcast. Everyone hear at the station and myself, wish you a fine farewell. Pleasure to bring you the news for twenty-seven years. Tonight, I will be sitting across the dinner table from my wife Lilian and we'll be talking about our sons, Ben and Theo. I send prayers to every single one of you. Good-night. Good luck. And God bless."  
_____

Time.

Never enough time!

God, how we waste it! 

They say time is a nonrenewable resource, they say what we spend our time doing is what we believe is most valuable in our lives.

Now the question is:

Do you truly find what you're doing valuable?

Or are you wasting time?  
_____

Sherlock went to the guest room.

Mrs. Holmes went to sit out in the garden.

Mycroft sat in his father's chair.

It's all so quiet.  
_____

It's been approximately two hours and seventeen minutes. Mr. Holmes should be back soon. They'd have to break the news to him.

After a while, Sherlock heard the familiar rumble of plane. It was getting closer and closer. He was back. Sherlock listened closely to the sound of the plane landing and coming to a complete stop. Silence followed. Sherlock was about to get up when he heard a door slam, a surprised yelp, and heavy footsteps bounding towards the guest room. Sherlock listened carefully, that ruckus couldn't have been made by his father. If not his father than who..?

"John!" Sherlock leapt up and wrenched the door open. He stopped dead in his tracks when he found himself face to face with a panting, flush faced John. 

"I couldn't do it," John said between pants, he swallowed hard. "How could you let me go?"

Sherlock smiled as he wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and crushed his body against John's. 

"Because I'm an idiot. A moron. An absolute imbecile." He murmured into John's hair. 

"I told him to turn around and take me back as soon as we landed. I can't...I just couldn't."

"What about your sister?" Sherlock said, releasing his hold on John just enough to see his face.

"Like I said, she's a romantic. She'll understand. Harry has Clara and Clara has Harry. But what will I have had? They'll be okay."

"I love you, John." Sherlock whispered, roughly pressing his lips to John's.

"I love you too." John whispered back against Sherlock's lips.  
_____

The next four days passed in a dream-like daze.  
_____

John and Sherlock spent their days walking around the surrounding area of Sherlock's childhood home. He took John to the pond where he would spend his summer afternoons catching frogs. He took him to the Hazel tree where he would hide from Mycroft during Hide-N-Seek. He kissed John slowly and sweetly against the tree where he and Mycroft would fall asleep after paying pirates all day. They spent their days trying fit years of getting to know each other in just four days.

The evenings were spent drinking wine with the rest of the family, Reminiscing about the past, laughing until they couldn't breathe.  
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes talked about the time they dressed Sherlock and Mycroft up as sailors for Halloween one year. They could hardly talk through their laughter, explaining how much the boys had hated their costumes. 

Mycroft and Sherlock confessed to crimes they had committed in their youth. 

It was Sherlock who had broken the radio when he was thirteen.

It was Mycroft who had stolen the brandy from the liquor cabinet when he was sixteen. 

They all laughed and laughed.  
_____

Sherlock found out John's favorite color is green. He likes James Bond movies. He finds body parts that aren't attached to their owners repulsive. He loves to watch telly, his favorite program is Antiques Roadshow. (But shhhhh, that's a secret.) He liked to read and write. His favorite book was Catcher in the Rye. He grew up in Surrey with his mother, father, and sister...  
_____

POINT OF CONTACT: 37 MINUTES.

Mycroft sat in the study, holding his last cup of brandy.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes held each other's hands, listening to the sound of one another breathing.

Sherlock and John lay together in bed, underneath the covers.

They had all said their good-byes. They were all content. They were ready.  
_____

"What now?" John whispered. "What do we do now?" 

"I just want to lay here with you," Sherlock said, idly brushing his fingers through John's hair. "And I want you to just...talk to me. Tell me everything about anything."

John told him all about his time as a soldier. He told him all about the heat, the blood, the sound of gunshots. Sherlock told John about the first time someone had called him a freak. He told about Redbeard and how they had to put him down.

John held Sherlock in his arms as Sherlock described in great detail his flat back on Baker Street. He described the wallpaper, the furniture, the creaky stairs. He talked about his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who was in Cardiff with her sister.

Suddenly, there was a loud, terrifying, thundering sound.

Time's up.

John gasped and clutched Sherlock tighter.

"Oh, God," He whispered. "I just wish there was more time."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked into John's eyes. "There never would have been enough time, trust me."

The whole room began to shake, it sounded like the Earth was beginning to break in half. 

John's eyes began to fill with tears, he was scared. So, so scared.

"I'm really glad I got to know you, Sherlock Holmes."

A tear rolled out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, a smile on his strange, lovely face.

The world seemed to get brighter and brighter and brighter, soon, it was too bright that John couldn't see a thing except for white light.

Then, there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! 
> 
> I hope you guys have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it! I'm sorry if you wanted a happier ending but that's just the way it's gotta be. If any of you would like to write an alternate ending that's totally fine! (And I'd love to read it!) 
> 
> Title from "Nineteen" by Tegan and Sara (This song is what I listened to A LOT while writing, it really fits.)


End file.
